The life of the Phantom
by JessieBell10000
Summary: What happened before Erik was the phantom, a time when he may have been loved. I am puttin this story on hold because of the cursed writers block! R&R with some ideas please!
1. Sarah, Erik's mother

It's my first fan fiction so don't flame me, but constructive criticism is okay. More chapters will be coming soon if you like my story.  
  
Hours of sweet relief came and went with each passing afternoon when handling his morphine and slipping silently into an insane stupor. Time and time again he would sit in his chair and think about his cruel past. But, we cannot start this way, you must start from the beginning, a time when no one knew of Erik as the phantom and when he may have been loved.  
  
* Sarah, Erik's mother 1832 - 1841 In 1882 a young woman, 9 months pregnant was ready to give birth to the monster, or more formally known as Erik. That woman was I. I was married to a young doctor, George De Lincour, and we were ready to have our first child. We lived in the French countryside and owned a small cottage away from the devastating aggravation and noise of the city.  
  
It was December 26, the day after Christmas, when Erik was delivered. As I suffered with pain George, and Carolyn, my nurse, assisted me in the delivery. From my fist contraction I knew that Erik was going to be trouble, as the hours passed of pain Erik finally entered the world. What a darling child, his smoky gray-blue eyes and baby smile drew me to him instantly. Yet, he did not cry.  
  
Days past, and he only cried if he was hungry, and seldom was that, other than that you probably wouldn't even know he was around. But, he was as inquisitive as a fawn. Poking, prodding, and touching everything in site.  
  
From an early age George and I could tell that Erik was extremely intelligent and beautiful. When he was happy his gray-blue eyes caught a diamond-like shine and his tiny lips would form a charming smile that no other child could possible match. His black hair was curly and he had that sweet innocence that you couldn't compare to any other child's. When he was sad Erik never cried, but he would go by the piano and just by looking at me I knew he wanted me to play.  
  
By his first birthday Erik could walk, and got into even more trouble. But, what was the biggest astonishment was that Erik was able to form full sentences by 1½. He would talk about nothing in particular, but nonetheless it was amazing. Sometimes I even felt threatened by his unyielding yearn for knowledge.  
  
As he approached 2 I realized that I had no ordinary child. From what I was to understand children weren't supposed to speak full sentences until about 2 ½. Some nights I would sit by his crib and cry tears of happiness that I was blessed with such an intelligent and beautiful son. He slept peacefully and never troubled any of us during the night.  
  
While George was at work one afternoon Erik and I were sitting by the piano and I decided to see if he had an aptitude for music. I lifted the toddler on my lap and showed him the basic notes over and over again. Then, after about 20 minutes I tested him. Naming random notes he hit every one of them on the first try. As I named notes he began to form segments of songs and short melodies.  
  
The piano fascinated him. He would get me to teach him new things all the time. Soon, I was teaching him things that I was still learning. Everyday he enhanced his comprehension of music. In a few simple weeks he was as skilled at the piano as I was, and he was only about 32 months old, where as I was 24 years old.  
  
That night George's assistant came to our door. He had told me that George had been killed that afternoon. He would not tell me how, but he said that it was an unpleasant death that I should not concern over. Then as quickly as he came, he left. I was left alone to raise a child that I barely knew the true genius of.  
  
Then, one day as his third birthday approached we had a fire lit in our fireplace. Damn his curiosity! He had to go and investigate. He put his face into the fire, I had tried to get him, but I couldn't get there fast enough. He screeched with pain as I called the doctor, Carolyn came and saw what lay before her, a sobbing child with third degree burns on half of his face. The doctor did all he could, but nothing could save Erik's face.  
  
As his face started to heal a gruesome scar was left on one side of his face. The beauty, which I was once so proud of, was gone, and all that was left was a monster that was a genius. No one knew of his infliction, except for Carolyn, a few other people, and myself.  
  
Finally, I am ashamed to say that I was embarrassed of his deformity. So, I fashioned a white mask and gave it to him. I pained me to give it to him as he inquired on why he must wear it.  
  
"It will be our game, if you do not wear it you will be sent to your room, and when you have it on I will give you a sweet treat," I replied the first time the little boy asked why.  
  
I found it harder and harder to punish the boy when he didn't have it on. He would sob and those tears are what made me want to love him even more, but they also made me hate him so. When he cried his wails and sobs were like a sad song pulling at my heartstrings.  
  
When Erik was 4 years old I gave him his own room. It was a small place, definitely much too small for his growing genius, but it was all we had. I had the piano moved in there and a small bed also. I removed all mirrors from the house, except my hand mirror, which I only knew where it was.  
  
Every Sunday when I would leave for my afternoon stroll about the town Erik would tug on my skirt and say, "Maman, can I come walk with you?"  
  
"No Erik, this is Maman's time alone," I would reply. And how true it was, I had to escape that house every once and a while. Hearing the piano now brought me sorrow, he would only play melancholy tunes, and when I asked him about it he simply replied, "minor keys appeal to me more than major keys."  
  
He wore his mask now all time. Then one afternoon he didn't have it on.  
  
"Why is your mask not on Erik?" I asked patiently.  
  
"Maman, it hurts my face so. It makes sore spots near my nose and eye. Don't you see them?" he answered me so innocently, like the child he was, not like the genius he was to become.  
  
"Yes, dear, I'll make a new one for you later. Now, hurry along and put the old one on for a bit longer," I replied ashamed at myself. He truly was a beautiful child who needed me, as I needed him.  
  
One year after George's death and Erik's accident I decided that it was too hard to raise a child on my own and I met, Louis Waterloo, an older man, about 35, with no children and a good job. For months I didn't even mention Erik, but soon I had to say he was real.  
  
When I first showed Erik to Louis he was horrified and avoided the child as much as possible. It hurt me to see Erik turned away so coldly. But, I needed the financial and emotional support to raise Erik.  
  
When Erik was 5 I became pregnant with a second child. I was now banished to that couch for nine months where the only noise I would hear would be the sad noted Erik belted out of that piano. When I finally started to show Erik was awestruck by the idea of a brother or sister.  
  
"I'll love my brother or sister maman, and they'll love me back," he said with that child-like innocence that he had always possessed.  
  
"I'm sure," I said not believing what I was saying. I thought to myself, how could I keep my next child from the horror of Erik's deformed face?  
  
He said this every time he would see me and then he would put his gentle and strong hands on my stomach. There was something about his hands that I had always admired. His fingers were long and thin. They seemed perfect for playing the piano and the violin.  
  
When I was six months pregnant Louis thought that buying Erik a violin would show Erik that we wouldn't forget about him when the new baby was born. As Louis came home that day with the little violin he laid it in front of Erik. Since Erik's curiosity always got the best of him he picked up the instrument and asked Louis, or to him, Papa, how to play it. Louis then got up and walked away from him, expecting the child to learn on his own, and I didn't stop him. Erik then tried himself, teaching himself how to play, matching notes with the piano and showing great improvement.  
  
The next day George was showing him how to play scales. After a week of practice he had mastered a C, D, A, G, and F scale. He learned everything at an incredible rate. When I was in my ninth month of pregnancy I taught Erik to read, but he would never pick up a pencil to write. No matter how hard I tried he would find a way to hide the pencil from me. Soon, it became a game of his, to hide things from me.  
  
With each day it got harder for me to try and find them so I gave up and then on May 16, Allegra, meaning in Italian, "happy," was born. Her full name was Allegra Zuleika, in Persian meaning "brilliant beauty," Waterloo. It had taken me months to think of that name, praying that this child would be a girl.  
  
I supposed I wanted Allegra to be what Erik was not, beautiful. It was a horrible feeling, but it was what I wanted. I in all honestly was breath taken by how Erik never even once questioned his intelligence.  
  
As a present to his sister he would play her lullabies on his violin every night. He didn't care whether she listened, but according to him, "music is the greatest gift any one could give to another, and I have chosen to give it to Allegra."  
  
How right he was. His music was a gift from God. I did raise him as a Catholic, but his intelligence did not accept the story of Adam or Eve and thus, he would look for answers in places other than the Bible.  
  
As Erik became older and more rambunctious I permitted him to go into the yard. One day while he was outside by the rose bush a small ugly kitten popped its head out from behind the bush. I knew Erik loved it from that moment so I couldn't stop him from having the ugly cat.  
  
The cat, which he called Jesse, because Jesse meant "gift of Jehovah," was an ugly little thing. His coat was a shade of brown with black paws and ears. His coat was matted and his ears were much too big for his body. Also, the little bugger had no tail and deep set black eyes. I suppose though they were a perfect match, neither of them really knew how horrific they were, all they saw was inner beauty.  
  
In some ways I felt that Erik was a better person than I. I would yell and scream at him while he would silently weep and then retreat to his room where he would compose his music and draw his pictures of things that would never be, to think that he thought there ever would be a machine capable of flight.  
  
But, when I would yell at him it seemed as though he didn't even think he did anything wrong, when he would slam doors or wake his sister he didn't know those were bad things, and the more I told him the more he did it. Sometimes I thought he didn't know the difference between right and wrong.  
  
When he was 7 and his sister was 1 Erik got the disappointment of a lifetime. He was outside playing with his cat when a neighbor's sheepdog came and attacked the poor cat. As Erik looked on in horror the cat was being brutally murdered by some foreign dog. Naturally, Erik ran into the house and told me what was happening. I demanded Louis to run out with his pistol and shot the dog, right in front of poor Erik. I had to pressure him to do it, but finally he gave in. As the dog dropped to the ground Erik ran over to his poor Jesse. The child picked up the cat in his arms and wept.  
  
In all honesty, that was the only time that Erik ever saw Louis for more than five minutes. To Erik this was some stranger, never introduced or said who was who. When Louis avoided Erik and played with Allegra it hurt me, but I never really told him I cared about him, I was quite indifferent to him too. During the years Louis and Erik lived in the same house they only saw each other for approximately 10 minutes, at the most.  
  
He brought the masticated cat inside and laid it on a blanket. He gently wiped the blood off the poor animal and crooned softly to its dead body, hoping that there was a chance it would remain alive. Allegra crawled aver and examined the sight. In a moment of intense fury Erik hit the poor baby and then realizing what he had done crawled to her and apologized profusely. He kissed her forehead and made sure that she was not hurt very badly. Then he returned to silently trying to revive his feline companion.  
  
After hours of useless prayer Erik realized that the cat wasn't coming back to him. He then asked me, "Maman, can we have a funeral for Jesse?"  
  
"Erik, he was just a cat, no need for a mass," I answered coldly.  
  
"He was not just a cat, he was my best friend, a friend who will never be replaced, because he, like I was subjected to live in a prison state. Now I demand I be able to give him a proper funeral," Erik's gray-blue eyes had a certain luster to them; they seemed full of hate, so I gave him the permission to have a private mass for his little feline.  
  
He went out into the garden and buried the cat where he had found it, under the rose bush. He looked like a lost angel, sitting there, praying for the soul of his cat.  
  
Every day Erik would go pray at the little grave, sometimes even leaving a flower for the kitten he grew to love more than life itself.  
  
The scariest days in my life were when Erik contracted pneumonia. I never actually gave the impression I cared to him, but deep down in my pathetic and unjust heart I knew I loved him. He became sicker and sicker every day until his fever broke and he became delusional. He would take pillows and pretend they were the cat, or he would say unimaginable things, like take him to the market and other things of that sort, although I doubt he even knew what the market was.  
  
He was strong though; Erik clung onto life like the devil himself. He didn't once give up, even when his fever excelled 103 degrees. His little body was strong and he conquered pneumonia. My heart ached to see him lying in bed for weeks, though. He asked me to play the piano for him everyday and as I played "Moonlight Sonata," he would drift off to sleep.  
  
I wouldn't let Allegra near him, so he did not wear his mask at all. I didn't mind, it never bothered me at all, but when I looked at him all I saw was the little beautiful boy that I had before the accident.  
  
Because of Erik's disfigurement I couldn't permit him to be like a normal boy, so I sheltered him, kept him away from the real world, until he was nine years old. I was about to take my afternoon stroll when he persisted he come with me. I refused at first, but gave in.  
  
As he walked down the street with utmost confidence I was glad he didn't know why he wore the mask, for if he did then there would be no way that he would get the courage to walk as strongly as he did. But, finally some young boys decided it would be funny to rip the mask off Erik's face and throw it down the street.  
  
When they did Erik's eyes widened with the same intensity that he had when I told him he couldn't have a funeral for his cat. When a crowd formed around Erik I sheltered his face in my skirt and I ran down the street to the mask. Whispers of "monster," and "freak," passed through the crowd.  
  
As we entered the house Erik asked, "Maman, why did they say I was a monster?"  
  
"Do you want to know? Because, if I show you then you have to promise not to get scared." I said trying to make him afraid.  
  
"Yes, I swear, I will not even flinch," he said eagerly.  
  
So, I took out my hand mirror and ripped off his mask. He shied away from the mirror and then covered his eyes.  
  
"Maman, is that me? Maman, do I look like that?" he cried out in horror. He didn't wait for me to answer, Erik ran outside and just away. I never saw him again. 


	2. Erik

*Erik 1841- 1844  
  
I didn't stop running for quite a while. I ran until I was sure I would never see my mother, or that mirror ever again. Mirrors, a torturous instrument, never showing you quite what you want to see. But, in any case I finally saw a flicker of light. I went over to investigate and an older man was sleeping near an open flame.  
  
I sat by the flame for a while and the old still slept. As I sat there I waited until I had all my breath and then found a piece of paper and drew the old man. His long beard was like that of Michelangelo, or Moses. But, he was very short and thin, it seemed as though he was on the run, or homeless. As I drew him I saw it. A violin!  
  
I couldn't help myself; I picked it up and started to play a little. The old man stirred and then sat up. He looked confused and scared for a moment and then spoke up, "Boy, what's your name?"  
  
"I am Erik," I replied simply. I didn't want to let him know anything else about me.  
  
"Where'd you came from and why are you sing my violin?" asked the old man inquisitively, although, I do think he had a right to know the answer to one of those questions.  
  
"I cannot tell you where I am from, but I am playing your violin because I have lost mine and I missed playing it, can I be forgiven?" I asked as innocently as I could, mother always said I had a child-like innocence about me always.  
  
"Oh, so we have a run away. Now, what may I ask do you plan on doing?" he asked with an air of pity.  
  
"I plan to find work in Paris, possibly to be a pianist or violinist," I said smartly, if I ever talked to father like that I would be punished severely. He talked to me for a while longer until finally I asked what his point was. He interested me with his proposal for me to come into the city with him and do sidewalk sketches and play for pennies.  
  
I quickly accepted fretting that he would change his mind. I then asked him why he was in the middle of the forest and he said he was there for inspiration for his art. I found that an honest reason so I accompanied him.  
  
Upon reaching Paris I never thought I saw anything more beautiful. The lights and all the people, but I shied away from the crowds scared that I would have to go through the trauma of the removal of my mask.  
  
Jacques, the old man, gave me an easel, some paints, and his violin to do street art. I guess my air of mystery attracted many people to my stand, mainly women, how curious those delicate creatures were. The always inquired at why I wore a mask for I was such a beautiful youth. I never talked while making art so the triumph of asking questions was not evident.  
  
I earned about 75 francs a day, all of which I used to help pay for our small studio. Soon we had our own art shop, "Masked," was the name. It added a bit of mystery to the it so I liked the shops name.  
  
One day a Persian, Siddharth came in and examined my art. He was impressed that a 10 year old could be so skilled, but what impressed him most was my musical talents.  
  
He went over and talked to Jacques and they talked for a while. As I was finishing up one of my compositions Jacques came over and explained to me how I was going to journey with Siddharth to Persia. I didn't disobey; in fact I was enthralled with the idea of travel. As I was putting my supplies away for the last time Jacques told me to keep them, I refused at first, but he insisted so as a keepsake I took them.  
  
Siddharth showed me an amazing journey through dessert, forest, and mountains. In some portions of the trip we took a boat, in others we walked, and then was took local wagons.  
  
As we ended our three month trek I was thrilled to learn that I would be performing my musical talents to the shah and painting portraits of his wives and children. Siddharth explained that as the shah's advisor he was sent to find the greatest talent in Europe, and he found me. I was flattered at the remark, but remembered to be humble as mother always taught me, although I don't believe she really cared about me. In fact, she avoided me sometimes, and what ever she had against my poor Jesse I will never know.  
  
I was shown to a lavishly furnished room, very expensive taste. I was shown all my clothing, all black suits with capes, very interesting for a young boy; I guess the shah thought there would be an older master of art and music. I was exceptionally tall for my age, so they were only slightly too large, but still they were enough.  
  
In my spare time I would compose. My floor was covered with music; it had to be at least an inch thick. But, when I was performing I was in a different world. There was no deformity in my music; it was all beautiful from the happiest concerto to the most sorrowful requiem.  
  
My art was also a gift. My favorite portrait was that of Rahj, the shah's 9 year old daughter. She had olive skin, not dark olive, more of an Oriental look. Her eyes were ebony black and her hair was the same. Only, when you looked into her eyes they were shaped like that of a cat. He face was gently curved and her nose and eyes were gently pointed, she didn't have one sharp feature.  
  
As a special portrait I painted her rising out of the ashes like the phoenix, her hair spread out and her arms open, ready to embrace the sunlight. Although, the shah didn't understand the idea of it he thought it was masterful.  
  
My other masterpiece was that of Rami-hara, the shah's favorite wife. She had an Egyptian style face and I captured that by having her lying on a couch bedded in satin with pillows that were softer than clouds. She was dressed in a golden robe with jewelry made of sapphires, rubies, and turquoise.  
  
Behind her were the pyramids and the Nile River. The moon was casting a soft shadow on her fragile frame and the scenery. The shah was most impressed with this work. It was presented the Rami-hara herself, rather than for the shah to have it. In his words it was, "a portrait worthy of the goddess Rami-hara."  
  
Siddharth was happy with my work in the Persian palace. I had enough gold to leave Persia and never have to work again. Then, I was given a most devastating nickname.  
  
One day a crooked merchant came into the palace and wanted to trade my mask for some rubbish. "Come now boy, let me see that, it's very well crafted."  
  
"No! It's mine," I said trying to back away from the strange man.  
  
"You can let old Herm see it," he said ripping it off my face. As I looked at him in disbelief and horror he dropped the mask and said, "Well, if it isn't Don Juan himself. What a handsome young man," he said mocking my disfigurement.  
  
My eyes must have turned into little slits as I looked at the wicked man with repulsion, to get the mask back I took a knife off of his cart and threatened to stab him if he didn't return it to me. He looked at me with a look of pure animosity as he handed the white mask back to me. Then, I took a piece of gold out of my pocket and gave it to him for the knife.  
  
When I gave him the money he ran as fast as he could and Siddharth came up behind me and put his large hand on my shoulder. "Why in the name of Allah did you do that?" he asked trying to reprimand me.  
  
"He took my mask, and I think that it was unacceptable, and further more that mask is the only thing that I really need in this life," I said trying to avoid the subject of what was behind the mask.  
  
"Why do you need the mask?" he asked. Damn, I had arisen more questions then I had wanted to.  
  
"Do you want to see?" I was mad with fury, "Do you want to know what lies behind the mask? Do you want to know what my torment is?"  
  
"Yes," he said sternly, almost like a father.  
  
I turned my back to him and removed the mask. To make the sight even more horrific I turned the beautiful side of my face to him first, and then the disfigured portion. He gasped at my horrible face. "So, I see you think I am a, how do you say, Don Juan, also," I said rather sarcastically.  
  
He didn't answer. The shock of what I had revealed was still settling in. I really didn't blame him, although I wish I could. I knew what I had to do, I had to leave this place, I couldn't stay any longer. So, after a year and a half of noble service to the Persian government I was leaving to go somewhere new, like Rome!  
  
I left the same way I came, by foot, wagon, and boat. I had finally reached Rome when I was reaching my 12th birthday. 


	3. Guiseppe

*Giuseppe 1845- 1849  
  
I was tinkering with a new machine when I saw a young boy sitting on a rock in the square. I sauntered over to him and examined him, he was a sturdy boy. Black hair, blue-gray eyes, tall, and thin, but he wore a mask over half of his face. He seemed to be day dreaming so I left him alone, but then he said, "Sir, may I ask why you approached me, but made no introduction?"  
  
"I am sorry; I am Giuseppe the humble inventor. Who may I ask are you?" I said.  
  
"I am Erik, the humble musician and artist," he smirked and then bowed gracefully. He had to have been from France because of his accent, but his bow was distinct of the Persian's.  
  
"How old are you, 13, possibly 14?" I inquired.  
  
"I am 12 years old sir," he respectfully answered. Such a polite boy for 12. "Excuse me for asking, but you did say you are an inventor?"  
  
"Yes, I am," I answered. "Why do you ask?"  
  
"Would you care to look at some of my designs?" he was amazing. He handed me a stack of papers and I led him inside. As I sifted through the papers he had an excellent concept of design and motion. So many small things, and then a flying machine, a cart without horses, and devices that ran without human or animal assistance.  
  
"Would you like to make some of these things possible?" I asked him, hoping that I would get to see some of his own work.  
  
"I would," he said respectfully, although he was preoccupied by the piano.  
  
"Do you play?" I asked. What an idiotic question, of course he could, did he not introduce himself as a musician.  
  
"Yes, would you like me to play for you?" he asked stroking the keys gently. I shook my head yes and he sat at the little bench looking over the sheet music I had. He picked out "Moonlight Sonata," and started to play.  
  
He didn't seem like he knew where he was when he was playing. A look of placid and ever loving joy came upon his face when he was playing the piano. His blue-gray eyes sparkled like the sun and his lips curled into a contented smile.  
  
He played for about 20 minutes and then stopped, "Bravo," I said as he got up. He bowed as a joking gesture. Then he said something that I truly found witty.  
  
"Well, where are my roses, every performer gets roses after their debut," he laughed and what a powerful laugh it was. In the middle of a laugh he spotted Figaro, my little cat, and froze.  
  
"Do you not like cats?" I asked.  
  
"No, I love them, I had a cat when I was a younger boy, but he was masticated by a dog. I do miss my little Jesse," he trailed off as tears filled his eyes.  
  
"Well, from now on, you can call Figaro your cat. He will be yours for as long as you stay," I said hoping this young genius wouldn't refuse my offer.  
  
"Thank you sir. I promise to take care of Figaro as long as I stay," he said as the tears backed up and a smile came upon his beautiful face once more.  
  
I showed him to the attic where he could stay and I would teach him how to be a master inventor. He was eager to learn, more than any other child I have known.  
  
The next day I gave him some clothing and we got strait to work. He took in everything I said like he was a sponge, absorbing every last bit of knowledge he could. The moment of truth came when I told him to assemble one of his drawings and he made a magnificent little music box, I know that if Isabella were alive she would have loved it.  
  
Isabella was my only child. She was a gem. Her golden curls and blues eyes shone in the sun whenever she sat outside. She was always wearing her pretty dresses and shiny black shoes. She made dolls out of wood shavings and cloth and played with them all the time. She died one winter, she was six years old and she had contracted a spot of pneumonia and died just when we thought she was going to get better. Maria was already too old to any other children, so when Maria died I was left alone with no one. But, that was 6 years ago and I've learned to live with it.  
  
It was a Saturday afternoon when Erik went into my yard for the firs time. I had a barn with two horses, a cat, and two pigs. Erik was interested in the horses so I taught him to ride.  
  
Erik took a special liking to Rosa, a strawberry roan mare. Rosa was only about 4 years old, but smart as a whip, much like Erik, smart beyond their years. When he wasn't trying to make his little gadgets he was brushing Rosa.  
  
Some days you would think that you would go blind from the shine of Rosa's coat. The thing that I noticed most was that Erik had a way with her, I could never even get the saddle pad on her back, but he could ride her with all the tack on. He would go to the square and ride her around where as all the little girls would giggle and whisper over the handsome new stranger with a half-mask.  
  
Sometimes Erik just rode around to be a show off, racing other young boys and beating their young stallions with his mare, while all the pretty girls watched.  
  
When all the young girls would walk around and whisper about the mysterious new boy Erik would pretend not to notice, even though I know he did. It never seemed to bother him when all the boys would make fun of him; he learned to get along with criticism.  
  
After many months of getting know and respect the 12-year-old boy I housed he was like a son, or a younger brother, never once did he complain about anything, seldom did he even talk. Erik was always either coming up with new inventions or composing.  
  
I would look over his compositions nightly and I noticed his bad handwriting. It seemed like no one taught the child to write. Also, he only wrote in red, never black, or even blue, only red.  
  
One day, Erik came into my house with utmost rage. "What's wrong Erik?" I asked worried about the boy I had come to love like a son.  
  
"Those dirty bastards," he hissed through his clenched teeth. "They stole my damn mask," and as he said this he turned towards me and stared me right in the eyes. There was a most distressful scar on his face. A burn, perhaps.  
  
I didn't reply. But, there was a look of anger and hatred in his eyes that no other mortal could ever possess. They had changed from a blue-gray to almost a black and his lips were curled, like he was a dog ready to bite. Then, he stomped up the stairs and on the way picked up Figaro and kept going.  
  
I didn't bother him; I feared if I did then he might take out his rage upon me. I didn't see him until the next day, and when I saw him the next day he looked much better, the hatred was gone and he was fine. It was like nothing had happened.  
  
For the next three months he didn't leave the confides of the house. He only went from the kitchen to his room and no where else. When I would inquire about Rosa he said that she deserved a better rider and he could not fulfill that.  
  
When he was in his room I could hear the violin and the piano interchangeably. Sometimes I would sit by his door and listen to the music that he would play.  
  
He had been with me for almost two years when someone came to my door. A young girl, couldn't be over 7 was standing out there. I asked her what was her name and she replied, "I am Allegra Zuleika Waterloo and I am looking for my brother, his name is Erik."  
  
"Erik," I called, "you have a visitor."  
  
He rushed down the stairs and stopped dead cold on the last stair. He saw a little girl with sparkling green eyes and raven hair standing in the doorway. "Brother?" said the young girl anxiously.  
  
Erik rushed over to the little girl, "Allegra, can it be?" he asked as he swung the little girl in the air.  
  
"Yes brother, it is I! I missed you; although I was very young at the time of your disappearance I can still remember when you played your violin for me at night. Papa had to learn to play just to put me to sleep. Come home, please," the pretty little girl said as she hugged him.  
  
"Come home, to what? I'll tell you, a mother who wanted to hide me from all people, a mother who wanted to get rid of me, she didn't say it but I knew it was true. I refuse to go," he said shoving the girl away.  
  
"If you refuse to return home I will stay with you, I rather like being around someone who could play music decently. Also, I've been taking voice lessons I would love to sing with you," she said innocently.  
  
"Not now Allegra, you must go home. However you found me I don't know, but you must go home. Maman needs you and so does this Papa you speak of. I will write you though. Give me the address and I will send you a letter every week without fail. Now leave me be, I don't want to know of my past," he said coldly. She wrote the address and then went outside to the carriage that had pulled up.  
  
A middle-aged woman sat in the carriage too, I figured it was Erik's mother but I didn't want to disturb him with that notion. How different the two were, Erik being very tall, while his sister petite. Also, Erik had a dark and mysterious feeling about him; his sister on the other hand was cheerful and sweet. The differences were as distinguishable as the similarities.  
  
One, they both seemed musically inclined. Two, both Erik and Allegra were emotional, a bit overly emotional it seemed. There were also physical similarities, Erik and Allegra had the same black hair and beautiful hands. So perfect and gentle, but at the same time strong.  
  
Every week Erik sent and received a letter. He let me read them as he liked to have his writing critiqued by people. I can specifically remember one, it read:  
  
"Dearest Sister,  
  
I am glad to hear your singing is going on splendidly. You excite me with the news that you are performing a piece from "Othello," as it is one of my favorites. Also, I would like to know if Maman is well, you said in your last letter she suffered with headaches and I want to know if my cure worked.  
  
I am still composing and inventing. I wrote a piece for you, "The Point of No Return," it sounds morbid, but it is quite a piece of work. I am definitely not suggesting anything but something about you reminded me of it. I have included the piece and I hope that possibly Maman would play it on the piano and you could sing it.  
  
Your loving brother,  
Erik"  
  
I rather liked reading about his sister; she gives the impression of being a sweet enough girl and he seemed as though he cares about her. It's rather nice to know a little bit about Erik's past, as he would not tell me anymore about it other than the accident.  
  
When I read his letters it reminded me of my sister, Stephanie, what a smart girl. Her head was always in a book and she never stopped learning. She moved to Florence when she was 16 and I never saw her again. From what I heard she married a violinist and they had a daughter, Christine, I think. But, I know nothing of her now so there's no point in wondering.  
  
For months every Friday letters would come and go. I worried that Erik dwelt on the letters; he read them over and over and then kept them in a portfolio for safe keeping. I would find him reading them when he was upset, like if he had to go to the square to get something and people called him monster and such.  
  
As years wore on I became sicker and sicker. I found it hard to stand sometimes as my knees would buckle and my back would creak. Erik would give me remedies of all kinds but nothing soothed my pain. Soon enough it would ache my heart and lungs to get up and I was bedridden.  
  
Erik left my side less and less. He would play his violin for me and I would fall asleep to the music while he would watch me and make sure I wasn't dying.  
  
One day when he wasn't there I got a stabbing pain in my chest and the sensation I couldn't breathe. Then, I wasn't breathing and with my last bit of strength I saw Erik come in and drop my medicine on the floor and run away. Then all I saw was darkness. 


	4. Father Angelo

Father Angelo, 1849- 1850  
  
As I was in the courtyard of the church I saw a young boy praying by the statue of the Holy Mother. He was wearing very simple clothes and had on a white mask. I didn't bother to talk to him, for I was contemplating something important and it is not right to disturb someone while praying.  
  
He sat there for many hours, sometimes he prayed while other times he just looked at the statue. Finally, when he was about to leave I approached the boy.  
  
"My son, what bothers you enough to pray for over 4 hours?" I asked.  
  
"A dear friend of mine has passed and I felt that it would only be proper to pray for the dead soul," he answered as he stared at the ground.  
  
"Do you have somewhere to stay?" I asked having the feeling that he was all alone in the world, and being a priest I could not let a young lamb of God wander without a shepherd.  
  
"No, but I will find away Father," he said as he started to walk away.  
  
"I will not allow you to wander the streets like a beggar when I could have done something," I said trying to persuade the young boy to stay at the convent.  
  
"You do not want me here, I am not a child of God, if there is a God," he said.  
  
"You silly boy, of course you belong here, everyone is a child of God, now what's your name and how old are you?"  
  
"I am Erik and I have 15 years on this body, may I ask who you are?" he said as he bowed gracefully, a very Persian bow.  
  
"I am Father Angelo. You are very polite for a boy of 15 years. Now child what is wrong," I asked sensing I had asked a very complicated question. For this boy was odd, he wore a mask yet was very handsome and then he was much too mature for a 15-year-old.  
  
"Would you like me to start from the absolute beginning?" he asked as he walked along side me.  
  
"Yes boy, start from the beginning," I said as I led him to the Vatican. He seemed anxious to start telling his story and I was willing to listen God permitting nothing happened before the story ended.  
  
He started the story from his third year; he couldn't remember anything before that. He told me of a fire, a terrible accident, and the trouble it caused his family. He also mentioned a strange man, a cat, and a murder in an odd way he made it seem like it was someone else's childhood because he spoke in 3rd person while telling the story.  
  
Many other things arose as he was talking, but nothing about the mask or its purpose. Then the boy changed the subject completely.  
  
"Father, what do you suppose would happen to an animal's soul?" he asked me inquisitively.  
  
"I have no idea child, you shouldn't worry though, you're not an animal," I said looking on the brighter side. "Why don't you come in now? You are a mess and you look as pale as a ghost," I led him in and drew a bath for the boy. He seemed grateful so I went about my business as the boy bathed.  
  
I invited him to stay at the monastery and he accepted without any qualms. I gave him a room in the Southern portion of the priest quarters. No one ever went there and it was fine with my colleagues. When he went into the main hall his eyes glittered at the sight of the organ.  
  
I showed him the ivory keys and he touched them with care and sweetness. I took out some of my old music and showed it to him. He immediately picked it up; he was a better organist than Vinny, our regular organ player.  
  
It was getting late and the boy looked tired so I led him to his room. It was simple and he seemed to like it, a very secretive place. Also, when he was in the room he seldom made any noise, he seemed like a phantom, even when he walked he made no noise.  
  
On Fridays he would send a letter to someone. I never read them, I did not believe in the intrusion of privacy. Once he asked me to read it, but I refused, it was his writing and I would not critique him. He would also receive letters, but they were thicker than his and I am guessing from a girl, as the envelopes were pink.  
  
As a surprise, two months after his arrival I let Erik play the organ at a mass. It was not the most intelligent thing I have ever done. There was a sermon on Hell and damnation. He listened intently as I talked about right and wrong and looked at me in total confusion. I was guessing he didn't know the difference between either of them. After the mass he walked to his room and pulled out the Bible and read about the falling of the angel Lucifer and the damnation of souls.  
  
I didn't bother to explain, because he probably comprehended it better than I did. There was no doubt in my mind that he knew more than I, he was a genius, his architectural comprehension and breakdown of the Vatican was amazing, he found every fault and strong point of the building. I never thought that he had the intellect to figure out such a thing until he showed and explained to me his theories and ideas on the enhancement of the structure of the Vatican.  
  
More and more Erik stayed away from the main body of the church and went in his room to read the Bible. In three months he completely stayed away from the church. Some of the other fathers said that he was Satan's child, a boy from Hell, but I couldn't agree. How could someone so intelligent be a damned soul at such a young age?  
  
I was ready to talk to the boy; he went into a basic form of recluse, only leaving for food. The child was so engrossed in staying away from people he wouldn't even leave his room to play the organ. It was my entire fault; I made him play on the day that I lectured on Hell. How I deserved to rot in the bowls of Hell as a person.  
  
I never saw him anymore; the only way I knew he was there was because he would leave his dish outside the door when he was done. I never heard the door open or shut. He was silent; sometimes I thought he was a figment of my imagination. That was until the day one of the men got to close to him.  
  
It was in March of 1850 when this happened. From what I've been told Erik was reading when Father Seterini came up to him. The father let his curiosity get the best of himself and wanted to see what was behind the mask. He removed the mask from behind Erik's head and turned the boy around. Then, the father cringed at the sight of the boy's deformity and Erik pulled out a dagger and stabbed the father in the head. When he realized what he had done another father saw him running away covered in blood and we never saw him again. 


	5. Erik

Letters from Erik to Allegra and vise versa 1850 - 1855  
  
March 1850  
  
Dearest sister,  
  
I have done something terribly wrong. In a moment of intense fury and angst I did the unthinkable. I have murdered a priest, but for some reason I do not care anymore. He took my mask and I panicked, you know that I cannot take it off for fear of what people may think.  
  
I have left the Vatican so you cannot send anymore letters there. I will find a place to stay in a matter of days and will send you the address of correspondents so that you may start writing to me again.  
  
You will have to answer my questions though. First of all, how do you fancy my piece; does it suit you? Does Maman like it? When are you going to boarding school and what is the address? If you are going to school in Paris I may go there, although I may find adventures else where.  
  
Your loving brother,  
  
Erik  
  
******************************************************  
  
March 1850  
  
Salutations!  
  
I've figure out where I am going. I want to travel to Melbourne. It is a new colony on what they call the "Island country." There seems to have been some sort of gold rush and I would like to see what all the hubbub is about.  
  
After consulting some travelers the journey will take about 5 ½ months to 6 months depending on the condition of the sea. I will write you of everything but you will not receive my letter for many months. I must be going now; I have a boat to catch.  
  
As always,  
  
Erik  
  
**************************************************  
  
March through September 1850  
  
Allegra,  
  
First week on the ship - I have just boarded the ship. It is very quaint and almost no privacy. Thank goodness I packed lightly. I share a room with an elderly man who has surely seen better days. The little boat rocks and quivers with the motion of the swells.  
  
I find it very hard to write, even more so than before. My hands ache because of the long hours of composing I do at night. My roommate doesn't mind so I keep doing it. The sky is amazing tonight. There's not a cloud in the navy blue sky. The stars are amazing, even if each one is millions of miles away. I wish I had a telescope at this time. It would be amazing to look at the stars.  
  
You would like it here. There's not much going on and it is as peaceful as ever. Although, we do suffer from the occasional sickening lurch of the boat. The sailors use me as a cabin boy. It is my duty to go around to the cabins and make sure everyone is safe and doesn't need anything. I like being needed, there's a certain thing about it which I enjoy profusely. There's no need to worry about me so far, I am fine and wouldn't wish to be any where but here.  
  
One month on the ship - There has been a strange breakout of illness on the ship. I have not contracted it yet, but many of the other passengers would like to say the same thing. I suppose it is from the slop they call food on this vessel.  
  
Luckily, I do not need so much food, so I survive fairly well on tea biscuits. Sometimes the sailors will eat tea biscuits with me; they prefer it to the cabin food too. Thankfully, I bought about 45 boxes of them before leaving the Vatican City. It's quite funny actually, while London is known for their food, Italy provides a much better quality. Some may accuse me of being an epicurean, but that is entirely false. I do not think that life is too short to drink cheap wine, or eat, drink, and be merry. The only time I find joy is writing to you and helping others, even though other people think of me as a monster or a freak.  
  
I found an interesting substance in my cabin last night. It was a liquid, but in a syringe. When I inquired about it no one could tell me what it was so I decided to try it on a rat. When I picked up the rodent it squirmed in my fingers but my tight grasp held onto it. I poked the needle into the scruff of its neck and waited for a reaction. When I put the rat down it started walk in a staggered pattern and soon enough it fell asleep. When the old man came back into the room he looked at me with the strangest face, I guess you could say testing what I know now, was morphine, on a rat was a bit ridiculous anyhow.  
  
He explained to me how it worked and what it did to the body. It was ingenious without a question. This morphine would attack the nervous system and make you go numb and forget your pain, physical OR mental pain. I was tempted to try it, but I decided it wouldn't be wise to use the same syringe as a disease infested rat.  
  
Days wore on without an easy flow. There were two very treacherous storms in which the ship almost capsized. It was frightening beyond all belief; I was sure during the first storm that we would die. But, the small liner held strong in the harsh wind, rain, and currents. There seemed to be no way of getting out of it so I fell asleep thinking about the comfort of my old home in Rome with Giuseppe.  
  
I think of you every day. I can't take it anymore. I seem to miss you more the farther we get. I don't understand it either. I know you are probably home with Maman, and your Papa, but I fret about your safety. Are you okay? Do you need anything, money for instance? I have enough of it, trust me.  
  
Second month on the ship - It's cold all the time now. I need to wear my jacket and cape all the time. I have come to like this hat, it's a pompadour and they fit excellently. All of the passengers on the ship think that my formal wear is unnecessary, to them it is, "funeral wear, not appropriate for starting a new life." I don't fully agree with them, it is entirely necessary in my eyes. I do try to look my best at all times.  
  
Do you suppose that when I get to Melbourne and give you my address you could send me a few books? I left all of mine at the Vatican when I was hurrying to get out because I couldn't take it there, always as they said, "under the watchful eye of vengeful God." They told me that God was forgiving and kind, yet when I was in the Church or at a sermon he was unyielding and cantankerous. What do you suppose they do, make children fear Him so that they behave? I know Maman used to do that to me, "Be pleasant and kind, God is always watching you." It makes me sick to think that people think children are so gullible. If God really did create the Earth did he not make a race of life that uses weapons and hateful mean to get their way? I really have no idea what it all means, and I must have read the Bible more times than any member of that Church.  
  
I am so sorry I am rambling on about this, but I have had a lot of time to think and this is the only paper I have. I suppose that it would be okay to ramble sometimes, and I know that you like to read about my theories, so I will ramble only when writing to my favorite little sister. Oh, and another thing, are you still the only child of the household? It has been plaguing my mind for a while now, not because of my fear for you, but because I want to know if I have any other little brothers or sisters. Oh, by the way, I am quite interested in knowing more about this Papa you write about. Is he both of our father?  
  
Third and Fourth months on board - It has become very dull and morbid. There are many deaths on the ship; I now have my own room, which is a good thing because I can pocket anything worth while from the old man. I know it sounds horrible, but I don't think he needs anything where he's going.  
  
There's another boy on the ship around my age. His name is Jonathan Carver. He was born into a poor family and he is going to Melbourne to make some money. I told him the same, although I am really only going for the adventure. I have enough money so that I never have to work again. I do have my suspicions about him, but I suppose that's because I am paranoid and trust no one . except you. Jonathan wants to know more of you, but I will leave it up to you to tell him anything, but I will not receive your letter for many weeks after my arrival. All I can do is pray my letters reach you and your letters reach me.  
  
I have been raising suspicion on the ship. Some of the sailors accuse me of being bad luck because if some one gets on my darker more sadistic self they end up with a fever and eventually die. I cannot help the fact that I scare people to deathe death. Sorry about the cross out, I was just chuckling to myself as I wrote that. It is strangely ironic that when people get mad at me, or I at them they die, but I promise to you I have nothing to do with the deaths.  
  
Also, I would like to add that when I get to Melbourne I will send you some gold in the envelope so that you can get to Paris. I know how you want to go to school there so I will start your funds for the trip. Do not let Maman or your papa get into the funds though, I want you to get the best education you can.  
  
The end of my travel is coming soon we have two more months at sea and then we are going to pull into Melbourne.  
  
The crew is running out of food. I now have to hide my crackers because if they are found I am sure that I will not have any left for the last month and a half of the journey.  
  
Fifth month and the half of the sixth - There was rough sailing for the most part. I don't think there is anything worse than what I went through the last month of my journey. The sea was rough and would not stop throwing it's flailing waves at our ship.  
  
The sailors have resorted to eating rats and I still have my crackers. I brought plenty of packages for myself and I share with Jonathan, but he is a bit of a pig.  
  
The last half of a month was filled with tension and anticipation. When we were nearing the coast I was amazed at the crystallized water. It was so blue, you could see through it. Many of the fish were bright yellows, greens, and oranges. The sailors called the orange ones clown fishes.  
  
When we saw shore there was a feeling of immeasurable joy. We were finally getting off of the boat and setting foot n land. When I stepped off the boat I fell about four times, sea legs do not leave easily, let me tell you.  
  
I am now residing in a small house on the coast line. There is another family here, but I will tell you more about them when you're first letter arrive; I want to send this one as soon as possible.  
  
Your loving brother,  
  
  
Erik  
  
**********************************************  
  
March 1851  
  
My Angel of music,  
  
I just received your letter. I thought you may have died on your trip because it took so long for you to write back. I missed your letters. But, I see that you are doing exceptionally well.  
  
To answer your questions, yes, I love your piece. Maman does not understand it, and they have decided that since I suddenly got money I will go to boarding school in Paris. I will be attending Miss Marie's school for young ladies. It resides on 455 Trouvdale Boulevard in Paris, France.  
  
Tell Jonathan that it is none of his business about me. I do not wish to have any suitors, considering I am still only a child. Maman is befuddled by the large letter I was sent. She cannot conceive who it is from, but I told her it was none of her business.  
  
I want to hear about this family you are living with. Do they harbor your talents? Are they treating you well? Do you get enough to eat? Answer any question that you would think that I would ask as your loving sister.  
  
I am so excited about going to school. I shall tell everyone I have the most amazing big brother in the entire world. I will not tell them about your accident or anything of that sort, but I would like to know if you would like me to show the music teacher your composition. It is entirely up to you.  
  
I am sorry my letter is so choppy, but I need to quickly skip from one topic to the next. Maman told me to go to bed 30 minutes ago and I am writing by candle light, rather than a lamp. I love you.  
  
Your Little Angel,  
  
Allegra  
  
***********************************************  
  
September 1851  
  
My little Angel,  
  
I am enthralled by the new nickname you have given me. It is quite fitting, I suppose. But about the composition, I do not mind if you show your music teacher. Don't tell anyone about my misfortune. But, I permit them to know that I am, Erik. Nothing more, nothing less.  
  
But, my "new" family is amazing. They accept me for who I am, and don't stifle my creativity. There is Mrs. Thompson, Mr. Thompson, Melissa, and Marcus. Mr. and Mrs. Thompson are very nice people; they do not put limits or boundaries on what I do. I have come to respect them as parents, but not enough to consider them a real family.  
  
Marcus is a nine-year-old who is anything but an angel. I wanted to kill him when he happened to rip up my original score of "The Point of No Return." He had no business being in my room any how, but since Mr. and Mrs. Thompson are such good people I could only forget about it and right it again.  
  
Where do I start with Melissa? She is a wonderful girl and so smart. Her age is about sixteen, a year younger than me. She has an impeccable singing voice and the façade to match it. Her raven hair flows down her back in a cascade of spiral curls and her emerald eyes sparkle like the sun itself. I know that if you were here you would enjoy the company of Melissa. Although, I have observed jealousy runs deep in Australia.  
  
I must tell you that young ladies here are anything but discreet. If they want something they let you know, I've had personal touches with this so I know. I must have had a dozen young women who wanted me as a tutor, or something more, I wasn't quite sure. I suggest you never come here, it is dreadfully hot and above all, it seems very uncivilized.  
  
I must be going.  
  
Goodbye Angel,  
  
Erik  
  
***********************************************************  
  
March 1852  
  
My Angel of Music,  
  
I am so happy here at boarding school. I wanted to get away from the parents. Would you believe that when I asked about you they said that I was hallucinating and never had a brother? I know it must hurt coming from your little sister, but I dare say it would be terribly horrible coming up to the door and your parents not even acknowledging your existence.  
  
Onto something more important, it seems as though my older brother is growing up. You seem infatuated with this Melissa far more than just a confidant. Could it be a tinge of love in this newly developed friendship?  
  
In other news, my music teacher was impressed with, as she said, "a work of such magnitude." She made me sing it in front of my class and they were all very impressed. I have met many young Mademoiselles who would die to meet the composer of such a magnificently put together piece. My new friend, Sarah, has asked about you many times. I always say, "He's tall, thin, has gray eyes, and too old for you." She laughs at my response, but I think it is completely fair, don't you?  
  
I am in such a hurry. I want to write so much more, but time is running short and it is almost time for class. I will tell you about my classes in the next letter I write. Right now Madame Devoir is yelling at us to hurry.  
  
Your little Angel,  
  
  
Allegra  
  
******************************************************  
  
September 1852  
  
Little Angel,  
  
I am still laughing at your quick wit. Although I do think you should say something like, "He's the true Don Juan, a master musician, painter, architect, and lastly, my accomplished older brother." It leaves room for mystery and enticement.  
  
By the way, how could you even assume I have feelings for Melissa? She is my friend and it would be treacherous to develop feelings for one's own friend, and student. I have taken her under my wing as a singer and she has decided that she would like to learn piano too. She has managed to retain some English qualities while being on the barren continent.  
  
I have given up on gold. It is of no importance to me, but I did start a fairly new service to these people. I am a mathematics, piano, violin, and voice tutor. I make more money that way than any one in the whole colony in a week. I have fourteen pupils, Melissa, Irene, Helen, Martha, and various others. My most promising student is by far Melissa. She is a true Prima Donna.  
  
I wrote another piece for you. It is an arrangement of other operatic pieces so that they fit together in a way that makes sense. I must say it is quite the piece of work. I must be going it is supper time and Mrs. Thompson would be furious if I was late.  
  
Your Angel of Music,  
  
  
Erik  
  
*******************************************  
  
March 1853  
  
Angel of Music,  
  
I love this new piece, so does my teacher, and every other girl in the school. Miss Morganstein, the music teacher, had me sing it in front of the entire school. I was so nervous but then I thought of you and realized how proud you would be of me, so I did it.  
  
I know that it must severely bore you to hear about my doings but I feel I am obliged to tell you. Miss Devoir is my sewing teacher, she hates me. I am dreadful at sewing, but she shouldn't bring it up to the whole class. You would think she would be more polite about it, but she's rude. Madame Frasier could care less about me. I am an average student in her fields, but other than that Miss Morganstein is the only teacher impressed with my work. She thinks that I could very well be an opera singer when I get older.  
  
I do beg your pardon when I mistook your professional relationship with Melissa as something different. You seemed to talk about her with such reverence it seemed as though you would make it more at the first chance it could. She seems as though she compliments your personality though. Just think, if you two were to ever fall in love you would be so happy.  
  
I must be going now. I am tired and the wick on my candle has grown wickedly short.  
  
Your Little Angel,  
  
  
Allegra  
  
************************************************  
  
September 1853  
  
Little Angel,  
  
You are so naïve little sister. I keep Melissa's relationship with myself on a professional level is because no one could ever love a face as wretched as mine. For eighteen years I have dealt with people and their comments. People are as shallow a puddle on a sunny afternoon. Just to let you know, that sentence was designed to make absolutely no sense.  
  
I don't think that your daily life is tedious. I am totally against that idea. You know as well as I do that all I do all day and night is compose, teach, invent, and read. I have no life of my own to dwell on, so I must use yours.  
  
I'm glad you think you would make me proud. I must say, I am a very hard critic. I have sent many young ladies home in tears as they have no fit my standards. Were you well received at the performance? I am so curious about your operatic career. I want you to succeed and by God, if I have to do something so drastic it's not believable I will.  
  
I must tell you I have begun to play my violin again. Instead of just writing piano music I have extended my field to composing violin music too. Since you don't know how to play I can't send you any, but if you have any friends who would like to play some morbid requiems then I will send you my pieces.  
  
I got a wonderful surprise. For my eighteenth birthday Mr. and Mrs. Thompson have imported a piano for me and I am so thrilled with it. I now have another way to help my students learn their music. The ivory keys are so delicate and the bronze pedals shine like the sun. I don't know why I am excited about it to this level but it could possibly be that I haven't played in three years.  
  
I must be going now. I miss and love you.  
  
Your Angel of Music,  
  
  
Erik  
  
********************************************************  
  
March 1854  
  
Angel of Music,  
  
How dare you say I am naïve? I think that if this Melissa was truly a good person then she would see the man behind the scar. No one that superficial is worthy of your love. Like maman or papa, they do not appreciate what you really are, a fallen angel, and a gift strait from the Holy Father himself. All I am saying is that if Melissa cannot see the person behind the scar then she is no better than any person in our small village.  
  
But in other news we went to the opera the other night and I have fallen even more deeply in love with the music. We saw "La Triviatra" and my peers and I were impressed. I have no intention of ever trying to sing that opera, I fear I would butcher it, but you would have to be the judge of that.  
  
I am glad that you have a piano. Is it in your quarters? Are you working on your own opera? Do you have any other new pieces? I am sorry I ask so many questions, but as you know in French society inquisitiveness is not the ideal feminine quality so I do not ask any questions in class. I cannot stress how badly I am doing in my sewing. I hate her. In fact, the other day in class I decided to give her a piece of my mind. I must say I have gotten a new reputation.  
  
I must go. I am in detention for my actions as of the other day. I love you and miss you.  
  
Your little Angel,  
  
Allegra  
  
******************************************************  
  
September 1854  
  
My little angel,  
  
I don't see the problem with being inquisitive. I rather like the quality. But I must tell you of something so amazing; it boggled my mind and made me rethink who I am. I don't know why I am telling you this but I think I needed to tell someone.  
  
It all started when I was giving Melissa her lesson. She was delivering an outstanding aria when she started to cough and she became very weak. I rushed from my piano to her side. She was still breathing so I lifted her onto my bed and checked her heart rate. It was fairly normal.  
  
After about twenty minutes of stress on my part she woke up. As she sat up her long eyelashes fluttered and she felt her forehead.  
  
"What's wrong?" I asked her rubbing her silky hands.  
  
"I don't know. I was at the peak of that aria when I suddenly got dizzy. Did you lift me onto your bed?" She said to me.  
  
"Of course I did. You needed to be cared for and I am the person to do it," I said as I laughed.  
  
She leaned forward and hugged me tightly. Then, she sat back and sighed. She looked into my eyes and we leaned in towards each other. She closed her eyes and I happened to do it too. A moment later her velvet lips touched mine and I felt a connection that I never had before. I was stunned so I opened my eyes widely and stood up. She walked to me and embraced me again, "Why must you wear that mask? You are so very handsome," she said playing with my shoulder length hair.  
  
"I can't tell you why I wear it, but I have to tell you that you don't want to know," I said backing up until I hit the wall. She then cornered me and pulled the mask right off my face. She let out a scream that you probably heard in Paris, but I just don't know.  
  
She ran out of my room and pretended to be sick for most of the next three months of her lessons. I was torn into pieces, what is wrong with being ugly? Is it not the person on the inside that counts? I wish more people were like you Allegra, kind and loving and can look beyond the deformity.  
  
I am deciding wither or not to leave here or not. I don't think I could torture myself with seeing her everyday and knowing that she sees me as a beast, not a person. My best wishes to you and good luck.  
  
Your Angel of Music,  
  
  
Erik  
  
*********************************************  
  
March 1855  
  
Angel of Music,  
  
My heart weeps for you brother. I cannot believe she only sees you as a monster. Don't believe what she thinks. You are a genius, a rose in a thorn patch. Any girl who was pure of heart would love you for who you are, not your appearance. She is no better than our parents. Now remember what I told you, you are not a monster, God does everything for a reason and he gave you your face for a reason.  
  
On another note, oh never mind. All I can think about is you and Melissa. She seemed so kind and a good person. It makes me fume to even think about her letting herself kiss your talented lips and then shunning you. I wish I was there so I could have told her what I thought, but I guess you can't change the past.  
  
Oh to hell with it. I can't write under this stress. I have final exams and then I hear about what that common street whore did to you and I don't know what to do. I must be going. I have studying to do.  
  
I love and miss you.  
  
Your little Angel,  
  
  
Allegra  
  
*************************************************************  
  
September 1855  
  
Little Angel,  
  
I am sorry to burden you with such problems at that time in school, but I must ask you to meet me in Paris on the 16th of March. I will be returning to France on the next boat, which leaves in two days. I cannot stay here any longer. I look at Melissa and know what she is thinking, "He's a monster. How could I have ever thought of him as anything else?"  
  
I did take offense to calling her a "common street whore," but it is a fitting title. Pardon my rudeness, but I think it is an appropriate title for her. I miss thinking that we could've been happy, but now, how do you say, my bubble has burst.  
  
Mr. and Mrs. Thompson are sad to see me go, but it is for the best. I couldn't live so close to her with a relationship so far away. I think I may have loved her, but I don't know now. Thinking about what I just said, I couldn't have loved her; she was never a woman, only a girl, a silly girl. I must send this before I go.  
  
I am anticipating our meeting in France. I can't wait to see what the little seven year old I met nine years ago looks like as a woman. I love and miss you.  
  
Your Angel of Music,  
  
  
Erik 


End file.
